


Petite Mort

by TheStrangestHell



Category: Beetlejuice (1988)
Genre: F/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-06
Updated: 2020-01-29
Packaged: 2021-01-23 22:00:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21327349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheStrangestHell/pseuds/TheStrangestHell
Summary: The living can't see the dead.Leaving her father and Delia in Connecticut, nineteen-year-old Lydia Deetz returns to New York with a heart full of promises, success as a young artist within her grasp.Just as a camera's shutters close, the perspective shifts drastically.As the fact remains: The livingwon'tsee the dead.
Relationships: Beetlejuice & Lydia Deetz, Beetlejuice/Lydia Deetz
Comments: 10
Kudos: 50





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This has been in the works for quite some time and I'm so happy to finally share it with all of you. I am continuing to update my other works but wanted something to keep me going on days when writing wasn't easy. This will be a short story but it means a lot to me.   
I sincerely hope you will enjoy it <3

_ Click. _

A camera shutter opened and closed on the form of a young woman crossing the street. Dark hair rippled in her wake, cascading down her shoulders, fanned by the slight winter breeze. But, passing a jet of air seeping from a main-vent in the wall it flew across her face, shielding it from view.

_ Click. _

“ _ Shit _ ,” one of the faceless voices from within the car grumbled, sounding rather disgruntled. “Fucking vents, you can’t see her face in this one!” He thumped the glove-compartment with a fist clad in leather, a dull whack sound reverberating within the small space. The woman had vanished into a nearby coffee shop. 

“Shut the  _ fuck _ up, would’ya?” The second man’s voice was raspy, thick with smoke. “We gotta job to do, ain’t no point screwin’ it up, or Juno will ‘ave our fuckin’ heads.” 

“Calm your tits, you sound just like Tina,” the first voice sneered. “Although, she sounded much  _ prettier _ last night - if you know what I mean.” The sleazy comment only irked the other man further. 

“Ya  ** _didn’t_ ** .” The danger in his voice was paramount, although it didn’t seem to phase his companion. 

“Fucking hell, Betel,” the first man was laughing fit to burst. “I didn’t think you cared much for her, let alone what and  _ who _ she does in her spare time!” He lit a cigarette, the soft glow of the light illuminating his features for the first time in the dark car parked down a shadowy side-street of New York City. Scuzzo - as his friends called him - wasn’t like other men. His irrevocable charm and quick-talking made up, significantly, for the vile taste he exuberated over many aspects of his life. For one thing, the pleasure of physically harming a woman was something he would talk about  _ constantly _ \- when given the chance. “Tied her up so tightly last night, I swear-down the marks on her wrists are  _ nothing _ in comparison to the mess I left her in.” He practically drooled. 

Betelgeuse didn’t answer him. His pulled his trench hat down a nudge to cover his features as he raised his own camera, taking aim. The dark-haired wonder had emerged from the cafe, clutching a white cup that almost blended into her beautifully pale skin. Wrapped in a huge black overcoat and red scarf, she shivered, the freezing evening air smacking her across the face. She couldn’t have been more than nineteen years old. This was fucked, even Betelgeuse had to admit it. But a job was a job, after all. 

_ Click.  _

“Pretty thing, ain’t she?” Scuzzo had leaned over to whisper directly into his partner’s ear; a move that would make most people recoil in horror. His breath reeked of death, but it was a smell Betelgeuse was used to by now, especially in association with the clown-of-a-man. “I’d love to see her hanging from my ceiling.” He didn’t even hide the arousal in his voice. His camera began clicking furiously, the great black monstrosity was flipped this way and that to capture every angle he could. 

Betelgeuse let him. He had neither the energy or the want to restrain him from being a pervert. The sleaze-bag did have a point though; she was  _ breathtaking _ . 

She had taken out her phone, flicking her wrist as she answered it to lift it to a heavily pierced ear. He couldn’t hear what she was saying, but his expertise of lip-reading allowed him a glimmer of insight. A friend, a night out, a party. She looked happy, although a little melancholic as if reflecting on something all of a sudden. Her face brightened to respond to her friend once more, the tell-tale tilt of her chin upward signalled her goodbye, and the call was ended. She looked downcast. This didn’t help their case in the slightest. 

“Shame her daddy is gonna have to pop-his-clogs soon,” Scuzzo was flipping through a  _ Playboy _ , hardly bothering to conceal the frantically scribbled lewd notes he was scrawling on every page. “Usually don’t care about the kin, but this one is so  _ delicious _ .” 

Betelgeuse had had enough. “Let’s get outta here,” he grunted, firing up the engine of his emerald pride-and-joy. “Should’a been back by now.” 

“Ooo, is someone scared of old June-bug?” Scuzzo cackled, kicking his legs up onto the dash-board. It was a harsh, ear-piercing sound - quite unfitting with his long nose, slick-back grey hair and piercingly abnormal violet eyes. For a dead man, he was far from decayed. They say he had traded his soul with the devil himself - a modern-esque Rasputin - in exchange for abilities like the wildest poltergeist. Yet it was the bizarre grey-tinge of his skin that kept him from walking with men. It seemed to shine as the car's headlights sprung into life at Betelgeuse’s touch, the car beginning to crawl out of the nook they had been concealed in for the last three hours. “Don’t wanna get put on probation again,  **do ** ya?” 

“Shut it.” Betelgeuse changed gears a little too vigorously, the car giving out a low-groan as if to showcase its displeasure. “Sorry, Doomie,” he mumbled, turning onto the street. 

They were about to drive past her. She had made her way far enough up the street that it took several seconds to catch up. Betelgeuse watched the chunks of dark hair not swept up in her scarf fall elegantly about her in the wind, step by step. As they sailed forward, he turned to look at her as she made her way along the stone walkway. Suddenly, without warning, everything seemed to slow down. In those few fleeting seconds, she looked up, turning her face to look him squarely in the eyes. 

_ Shit.  _

The world righted itself. Time flushed and pulled itself forward to the present. He drove like a mad man, as if he had never driven before; racing down the road so fast that Scuzzo’s knees jammed into his chest. He turned sharply into a side-street, eyes wide. 

“Fuck, you crazy bastard,  _ slow down _ !” 

‘She saw me!” 

“Saw-what the hell are you on about man? Quit bullshitting!” 

“I ain’t fuckin’ bullshittin’ you  **fuck** !”His mind was racing. The living shouldn’t be able to see the dead, not unless…”We gotta go back,” he slammed his heel on the break, Scuzzo lurching forward as the car stopped dead in its tracks. “Now. She’s-!”

Scuzzo had grabbed Betelgeuse’s wrist, his eyes were cold and unforgiving. “Don’t you fucking dare. Don’t risk it. You’re putting both our jobs on the line.” He spoke perfectly calmly, his gaze bore into his companions. “You know what these jobs mean, what happens to us if we screw up  _ this _ bad.” 

“Fuck.” Betelgeuse’s head rested on the steering wheel, the alien gasps for air shaky and out of practice. “ _ Fuck _ .” 

“We need to get back.” Scuzzo relinquished his hold on Betelgeuse, knowing his persuasive nature had infiltrated its way into Betelgeuse’s head. At that very moment, a loud ding issued from Scuzzo’s breast pocket. After a moment digging, he withdrew a small watch ejecting a light of brightest blue. “Juno.” He grunted, sliding down in his seat a little, with a soft grunt. “Come on. Let’s go.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am in utter despair over myself right now. I've been beating myself over the head trying to write chapter four, desperate to upload something when I didn't realise I hadn't uploaded chapters 2 or 3!! I can't begin to tell you all how sorry I am for being borderline dead on arrival with updates, I thought I had been!   
Note to self for 2020: make an uploading schedule!!   
So sorry everyone, please enjoy and I shall see you soon!

The staircase to her shared apartment was endless. A dull clang sounded for every step she took in her heavy, heeled boots, her legs aching. As grateful as she was to her father for financing her home in the city, it was somewhat burdensome that it was  _ right at the top _ of the complex. Her bag had been cutting into her shoulder for quite some time, and certainly wasn’t getting any lighter. Weighed down with books and files of her favourite photography pieces, quite a few featuring:

“Claire, I’m home!”

“Lydiaaaaaa!” A flurry of pink and blonde flung itself at the goth, throwing mesh trumpet-sleeved arms around her woolly neck. “How did it go? Tell me  _ everything! _ ” 

“Calm down Claire, let me get my shoes off first!” Lydia giggled, gently nudging the girl off of her. She bent down to untie the laces of her boots, making sure not to let the steadily melting snow drip onto the rich wooden floor. 

The trouble with Lydia’s apartment was that her father insisted she have the best, but could only afford to send her somewhere with a roommate, and even that was pushing it. Lydia would have happily lived in a hovel if it meant saving money and her father’s nerves; but, Charles Deetz - as problematic as he was- was as a father, devoted to spoiling his daughter as means of showcasing his wannabe-extravagant lifestyle. Although a comfortable man at heart, content with an armchair, steaming vat of tea and a book on wildlife; the impact of Delia on his life was apparent. 

Claire, on the other half, was  _ rich _ . A total daddy’s-girl, through and through. Claire owned only the best and had had difficulty channelling her privilege through childhood. Coincidently, she and Lydia had attended the same school as kids, but Lydia had moved shortly after her father’s nervous break-down. Before then, however, Claire had tormented Lydia for the girl’s strange and unusual nature, constantly choosing to belittle and bitch her way into the darkest parts of Lydia’s existence. It had been bearable, as Claire was anything but deeply malicious. It had just been pre-teen bullying, and the girl had miraculously changed; although, it was confusing as to just why. 

As soon as her second shoe was off, Claire grabbed Lydia by the arm and hurried her into the living room, collapsing delightedly into a plush white arm-chair. “Spill!” she commanded, shoving a large gin into Lydia’s bewildered hands. 

“Uh, well…” Lydia began nervously, giggling at Claire’s enthusiasm. “He was intimidating at first - you know, they often are, it’s not unusual or anything, but he loved them, Claire, he  _ loved _ them!” 

The blonde’s eyes welled up with tears. An odd high-pitched squeal erupted as she clapped her hands together, utterly ecstatic. 

“Oh, Lydia! That’s wonderful news!” She wiped her eyes on the back of her hand, taking care not to smudge her mascara. “No one deserves this more than you!” 

Lydia blushed deeply, taking a swig of the gin to distract herself - which was, of course, pink. She was living her dream, the dream. The dream most people had, but so few were ever lucky enough to see through. She was going to be an artist, a  _ real  _ one; and she hadn’t even graduated her course yet. Her art was going to be displayed all across galleries in New York; her art was going to be seen by  _ millions _ from all around the world. A childhood hobby turned profession, so quickly. It was more than she could ever have imagined in even her wildest of dreams. 

“I have you to thank,” Lydia smiled at her friend, taking her beautifully manicured hand in her own chipped one. “If it weren’t for you being such a willing model, I don’t know how I would have gotten half of the shots I did. Thank you, Claire.”

“Lydia, don’t be so silly!” The blonde shook her head, horrified. “It was all your creative vision; I’m just a pretty face! I wish that I had  _ half _ your skill!” She downed her glass in one, jumping to her feet. “Now, we _ have _ to get you ready!”

“Ready...?” 

“For the party, I told you about earlier! Bertha and Prudence are on their way, it starts in four hours!”

“Claire, that’s plenty of time,” Lydia laughed weakly at her friend’s insistence, but the blonde would have none of it. Grabbing Lydia’s hand, she marched her up the stairs, into the large bathroom. “Strip.” She commanded, dragging the large coat off of her friend, folding it neatly over her arm. “Shower, shave and save.” She waggled a beautiful hand at her. “We have to look  _ beyond _ gorgeous tonight. Spencer’s gonna be there,  _ and _ Preston!”

“Oh, right...yeah...” Lydia mumbled, starting to unbutton her dress with her back turned to the blonde. Men weren’t exactly at the top of her priority list - if they were on it at all. Her dress fell to the floor in a heap and she stepped out of it, onto the tiled floor, wearing nothing but her ivory silk underwear. “Claire, I love you, but would you mind? I should probably wash.”

“On it,” her roommate winked, crossing the threshold, preparing to close the door behind her. “You should give Preston a chance, Lydia; you might really like him!” 

Alone again. The steaming flow of water issuing from the showerhead soothed her aching skin and muscles in a bliss unmatched. Soon, honey soap bubbles were everywhere, violet-scented soap and jasmine fumes wafting throughout the large, decorative bathroom at Lydia’s disposal. A symphony of smells, all complementing her aesthetic in more ways than just delicacy. It reminded her of her childhood home in France; the country of her mother’s origin. Her heart ached. She shouldn’t think about that now. 

Wrapped in a large towel, Lydia padded, barefoot, to her room. The dark green walls greeted her, a soft warm glow of candlelight filling the room alongside the merrily twinkling fairy lights hanging across the ceiling. Lydia smiled, her heart filling with an appreciation for Claire and her knowledge of Lydia’s candlelit routing post-shower.

She sat at her vanity, examining her complexion, pondering what to do with it for tonight’s event. As much as she loved her, it wasn’t fair that her roommate was so beautiful. Her golden hair, bright eyes, plump lips and sun-kissed skin - even in wintertime - granted her the constant look of a goddess. It didn’t help that she was so kind now. Beautiful inside  _ and _ out. Herself, on the other hand? No exceptional beauty. She looked fairly ordinary; small-lipped and slightly soft jawed. Her pale skin clashed with the midnight coloured hair atop her head (which - as she would so often admit - was dyed, periodically). Perhaps the most unusual feature of her face was her eyes. Hazel, ringed boldly with black, staring. They gleamed so cat-like that it was a wonder she wasn’t out chasing small rodents. But it wasn’t so much their appearance that made them abnormal; but her ability to  _ see _ things. 

Lydia could see dead people. They roamed the earth in proximity just as close as every other man; lived in the same homes as the living, usually in plain sight. She had been able to see them ever since her seventh year, when her mother had died tragically and abruptly, right in front of her. The memory was scarred into her brain, emblazoned in red - a horrible reminder of her own fragility.

She had applied her base makeup, now moving on to dust maroon eyeshadow atop her lids, and below her waterline. Even if she didn’t consider herself to be attractive - despite Claire’s constant tutting and words of praise for her features - at least she could semi-sculpt herself a look that gave her confidence. There was beauty in a little vanity. 

Her hair - still damp from the shower - had begun to dry throughout the process of her makeup; forming loose, semi-defined waves down her back. She held it between her hands, pulling it up in an experiment of volume. Up or down? She knew it was no match for Claire’s naturally curly, shoulder-length silken mass - which would, no doubt, be styled in a loose form, fitting for the Blonde’s perfect appearance, showing-off her collarbones and neck. Perhaps she’d better leave it down; at least she was hidden well that way. 

A soft knock at the door announced the return of her roommate. Claire’s excited and half painted face poked around the corner, a large pink drink clutched between delicately manicured nails. “Lydia, they’re here! Do you want to start drinks in your room or should I wait with them downstairs?” 

“Just give me five minutes Claire, I just need to get dressed,” Lydia smiled, twisting around in her chair to face her friend. “Bring them up in a bit, maybe make them some drinks while you wait?”

“Great idea,” Claire blew her a kiss before vanishing in a swish of blonde locks, shutting the door softly behind her. 


	3. Chapter 3

“You’re late.” 

“Sorry, Juno.” Betelgeuse tossed the photos onto the already overly-crammed desk of the old woman glaring up at him, her lips pulled down in a horrible grimace as if he had just brought in something terribly unpleasant on the bottom of his shoe.

“You look worse,” she sniffed haughtily, looking him up and down before snatching up the photos. “Decomposing like  _ that  _ for a ghost is unheard of.”

“Ya damn well know it’s the fuckin’ curse,” he growled, throwing himself into a large green-leather armchair opposite her desk. “And ya also know who fuckin’  _ did _ it to me.” 

“Yes...well,” Juno sighed, distractedly, examining the photos at arms-length as to better focus on them. “You’re incredibly lucky that your punishment wasn’t more severe, or else, most likely wouldn’t be sitting in that very chair right now. You  _ also _ know the cure. Ah, Scuzzo.” 

The second man had just entered, balancing a drinks carrier containing three cups of coffee. “Juno.” He nodded at her, setting the tray down and sitting in the crimson armchair, situated beside the poltergeist’s. 

“These photos,” Juno said, looking at the pair of them, waving the prints gently as if drying them out. “They’re of the Deetz girl, is that correct?” She began to rummage through the large pile of them on her desk, occasionally stopping to scan one with a gaze of interest before moving swiftly on. “She’s younger than I expected…” she murmured, as if to herself. 

“Yup, that’s her,” Scuzzo had kicked up his left leg to balance it across the knee of his right, lounging in his chair. “Practically had to restrain Betel when he saw her.” He didn’t look at Betelgeuse when he said this, his sly smile plastered firmly on his face, chuckling to himself, darkly. Betelgeuse let him. Juno knew better than to trust the tall tales of Scuzzo. 

“Fascinating,” Juno mumbled, sarcastically. “Alright, thank you both for bringing me these.” She gathered all the pictures together, tapping them against the mess of papers on her desk to form an orderly collection, and opened a large grey file, chucking them all within it. “Charles Deetz has approximately seven hours left to live. This will impact the girl greatly, hence the need to seek her out. Her progress must be tracked.”

“But...what of the man’s wife?” Scuzzo asked, as if deeply concerned. Betelgeuse felt his stomach churn nastily. There was nothing remotely caring behind the words of Scuzzo. Not that he cared much; the living meant nothing to him, but Scuzzo’s sexually sadistic nature was less than pleasant to think about. “What of her progress?” 

Juno raised an eyebrow. “How kind of you to ask, Scuzzo,” although her tone was filled so strongly with sarcasm; it was hardly believable that she was truly grateful for his interest. “You are to record and watch over Delia Deetz. She is your responsibility, so to speak.” 

“ _ Record _ ?” Scuzzo’s interest was piqued, rising a little in his chair.

‘Document.”

“Ah,” Scuzzo sank back down, raising a hand in apology. “My bad, Junebug.” 

Clearing her throat with enough force to push a great deal of trapped smoke from within her neck, Juno turned in her chair to face Betelgeuse. 

“Now,” she said, tapping her papers on the desk. “You are to keep an eye on the Deetz girl. I believe she is going out tonight, a party. I’m sure you noted those details earlier?”

“Yeah.” He replied, bluntly, fiddling with the gold ring on his index finger. His demeanor had shrunk over the years, reduced to a quiet, depressive performance of character. It was unlike him, usually so vibrant and obnoxious. Even Juno, who usually couldn’t care less, was a little worried for him. 

“That will be all Scuzzo,” Juno didn’t even bother to look up from the papers in her old hands, spectacles halfway down her nose. “You know what to do.” 

Scuzzo got to his feet, stretching. “Sure do, sugar cube.” He looked down expectantly at his partner, hitting his shoulder with enough force to make the man sway gently. “You coming, Betel?”

“He’ll be along in a moment,” Juno said. “I just need to confirm some more details with him.”

Scuzzo nodded, saluting a little to Juno, backing out of her office without another word. His figure rested against the glass window, the green haze of the offices, still of a vintage design - despite the modern world outside - shining against his silhouette.

“Betel,” Juno leaned forward slowly, her elbows resting on the desk. “What’s with this slump, huh?” She didn’t sound dismissive, but her tone was a little impatient. She was trying, Betelgeuse knew it, to be somewhat caring. That was unlike her, and, against his better judgement, he appreciated it. 

“S’nothin’.” He said, still not looking up from his ring. “Honestly Junebug, don’t worry ‘bout me.”

“Oh, believe me, I’m not worried, I just don’t want anything interfering with your work.” Her tone of questionable loathing had returned, and she shifted in her chair uncomfortable at her own words, as if reciting a poem most despicable. “This is a life sentence, Betel, don’t start regretting suicide now.” 

If anything were to make the man look up, it was this. Betelgeuse’s eyes flashed dangerously at Juno, glaring, penetrating. 

“It ain’t that, okay? I have other stuff on my mind, believe it or not.”

“Oh, so it’s not nothing?” Juno looked satisfied at her investigation. “Tell me, what’s bothering you of all people.” 

“Jus’ tired.”

“Tired? You’re dead.”

“N’ the dead can’t get tired now, huh?”

“Well-”

“That’s it. Nothin’ else but needin’ a nap.” Betelegeuse stood, unexpectedly, causing Juno to start. She jumped to her feet. 

“Betel, wait.” 

“Swear down, Junebug,” Betelgeuse raised his hands in a mock surrender, forcing a shadow of his old grin to flit across his face. “Ain’t nothin’ more than a bit’o insomnia.” And with that, he slipped out of the door, his grotesque coat whipping around the doorframe, leaving Juno stood, her hand outstretched a little, as if reaching for something far from her grasp. 


	4. Chapter 4

“God, you should have seen her face, I swear the girl was about to  _ scream _ !” Claire snorted into her fifth glass of champagne, giggling uncontrollably. The tall, dark Prudence had keeled over into her best friend’s lap, tears of laughter rolling down her face. Said best friend, Bertha, looked nothing short of hyperventilating. Her heap of ginger curls was lolled back onto the white leather, nude-painted lips wide apart, wheezing as her little body shook with laughter. Lydia’s nose rested scrunched on her own champagne flute, her form shaking with silent giggles and cheeks flushed and excellent rose. Although the girls had only been with one another for a short while, the endless stream of tales and gossip from Claire had kept the party utterly vibrant. Wiping a tear from her pretty face, Claire turned to Lydia, her eyes slightly fuzzy. “Anyway, let’s get to the  _ real _ stories! Tell them, Lyddie, tell them the good news!” 

“Oh, yeah!” Lydia shifted on the pristine couch to tuck her knees beneath her, curled in a manner almost feline. Her curtain of hair flowed freely over her shoulders tonight, air-drying and grazing the top of her thighs. Had her dress not been such an unusual shade of scarlet she would have looked like a knock-off cousin IT. “I’ve been offered an exhibition slot! Well...several actually.” 

Bertha and Prudence erupted into a mess of “no way”s and “that’s great”s, their eyes shining with admiration for the friend. It was silenced by Claire, who raised both arms in celebration, forgetting the pretty glass flute clutched between her glossed white nails. 

“SHE’S AN  _ ARTIST-E _ ” Claire screeched. “Here’s to the new Leonardo di-di capriooo!” She hiccuped, sloshing a great quantity of the champagne down herself. Claire was a lightweight, and proud of it. 

“Don’t you mean Di Vinci?” Prudence asked.

“Da,” Bertha corrected them both poignantly. “ _ Da  _ Vinci.” 

“Di, Da, Dum, s’all the same to be perf-perfectly...humble,” Claire hiccupped again, messing up the words to her impromptu speech and raised her glass. “Whoever those losers are, they’re nothing compared to our girrrl! Ouurr Lyddie!”

“Lyddie!” The three girls cheered, chinking glasses, making purposeful eye contact with one another. As the surprisingly (and selectively) superstitious Claire said: bad eye contact meant bad sex. For life. 

Now Lydia blushed a new shade, burying her face in her hands. It was more than she deserved; happiness such as this. It wasn’t easy adjusting to the life of laughter and love she now existed in, floating absentmindedly away on a river of acceptance from her peers. Her old feuds with Claire had died with age, the blonde losing friends left, right and centre as her immature outlooks damaged the lives of more than Lydia, Bertha and Prudence. Somewhere along the line they had all just melded together; no one really knew how or why. An odd bunch, granted, but they mixed well. Bertha always said they were like sweet cherries, almond and bitter dark chocolate. 

Bitter... _ bitter _ . Something stirred in Lydia’s memory, something she had let slip through her thoughts like water. It hadn’t mattered at the time, but the sudden forefront jump of such an experience forced her into recognition. It had been mere hours ago after she stepped out of her meeting, she had gone to get something warm, eventually leaving the shop with a cup of coffee clutched in hand. She recalled a car speeding past in a cloud of dust, her lungs crying out in protest. But she had seen a face. A face one would see in nightmares. It was like a scene played in slow motion, the car chugging smoke dragged as they made eye contact, two faces met, both wide and full of fear. Bile rose in Lydia’s throat at the memory, just as it had then. The anxiety was perpetuating like nothing she had ever experienced. Choking it down, she had blamed the coffee - although it was humbly sweetened with vanilla. She had a nasty suspicion about that face...

“Lyddie?”

Lydia snapped out of her trance in an instant, shaking her head to clear it. Perhaps the alcohol had started to rush to her brain. She had hardly eaten all day, a quick piece of toast devoured en route to the meeting. 

“Are you alright?” Prudence placed a hand on Lydia’s shoulder, stroking it gently with her thumb. The olive-skinned beauty had a tendency to act the mother in any situation.“You were totally zoned out.”

“No, I’m fine!” Lydia beamed to aid her lie. “Really! Just a little tipsy!” She giggled, raising her glass to her lips, taking a swig. “Shouldn’t we be going soon?”

“Spencer and Preston are gonna pick us up!” Claire winked, speaking in a hushed voice as if the party were being overheard above the booming bass of her self-proclaimed-award-winning playlist. “And Duncan and Nicholas are coming for these two,” she waved a hand in the general direction of Bertha and Prudence who clutched one another, giggling. The girls had recently started seeing two brothers, twins. Lydia didn’t doubt some kind of questionable orgy would ensue. 

“You know, Claire,” Lydia sighed heavily, looking down into the contents of her glass. “I just don’t know if I’m ready for all... _ that _ .” Her heart hurt as she said what had been bothering her since the first time she had met the notorious Preston. He was everything she didn’t gravitate towards, but everything she  _ should _ . He was handsome, rich, blonde and tan; he could have been Claire’s brother had he had not had eyes of a brown so deep they could easily be mistaken for black. They had met once and Preston was (according to Claire) “digging” Lydia. 

“Lydia, you’ll  _ never _ get with  _ anyone _ if you don’t give them a chance!” Claire was lent so far forward her breasts were in danger of spilling out of her pretty salmon frock. “Besides,” she bit her lip, tentative of the blow she was about to aim, “How else are you gonna pop that cherry of yours?”

If Lydia had been red before she was practically crimson now. Her face flushed a shade that rivalled the shining dress clinging to her pale frame. “Claire!” She gasped, a hand flying to her lips, stifling a giggle, “Shut up! We both know-”

“Oh yeah, I forgot you were engaged to that vibrator of yours,” Claire took a sip of her champagne, pretending to correct herself. “I just mean the  _ real deal _ . It’s well overdue, how are the spiders and cobwebs down there doing?” 

Lydia threw a small fluffy pillow at her, laughing. She didn’t care about Claire’s digs; there was truth in her words. Lydia was just one of those people who had been too busy (moreover, too anxious) to flirt, or kiss or suck off behind the school bins. 

The doorbell rang. Claire’s eyes shot wide open. 

“ _ I’mgonnacombust _ ,” she blurted, stuffing the heels lying haphazardly on the floor back onto her feet, teetering down the hall to answer the door. After a few minutes, she re-emerged, arm in arm with a tall, dark boy, Spencer. Behind them, dressed in a tight white suit, was Preston. 

“Hi girls,” Spencer beamed. His dark hair was swept back with copious amounts of gel. “See the party has already started!” The hand not stuffed in his front pocket was wrapped around Claire’s hip, his thumb stroking the mesh material of her dress in a sleazy manner. Lydia winced. 

“Oh Spency, you know the party doesn’t really begin until you’re here,” Claire purred, twisting in his grasp to face her tall, dark, handsome beau. The pair had only been seeing each other for a few weeks - a surprisingly short time considering the constant racket the two of them made nearly every night. 

“Oh Clairey-Wairey, you’re the sweedest widdle thing!” Spencer’s voice had become horribly thick, nuzzling his nose with Claire’s, causing the blonde to giggle, tossing the long waves away from her face. They proceeded to kiss, making noises that sounded horribly like a plunger being removed from a toilet. The doorbell rang again, saving Lydia from their less than modest display. 

“I’ll get it!” She was practically already at the door. 

The twins greeted Lydia with a cheery wave, smiles as bright as always. They were the only two she could stand out of the four male horsemen of the sexpocalypse (although she would never admit it). They were charming, funny and perfect husband material. 

“Prune!” Nicholas froze in the doorway, arms spread wide in a dramatic state of shock seeing his girlfriend. They bent forward to sweep Prudence off her feet, the girl howling with delight. 

“Burp!” Duncan followed suit. It seemed he was about to pull a very similar stunt to his brother, but pointed at Bertha at the last minute as if the pair were reunited to scheme and cause disarray. Bertha returned the point, the pair concluding their meeting with an elaborate handshake. “Hey, ya know Lindy is gonna be there tonight too,” Duncan said, waggling an eyebrow at Bertha. 

“Forreal?” She bit her lip, grinning at him. “What say you and I make our move?”

Lydia laughed, more to herself than anyone - not that any of them were listening. Duncan and Bertha were self-described as “openly-seeking-and-raging-bisexuals,” the pair always looking for someone interested in shaking up their sex-life and help the two become a three. Last month had been Lewis, an affair that fell short after he moved out of town. Never two to lead-on, they had been openly flirting with Lindy for about two weeks, hoping to encourage the ever-growing spark. 

A sharp poke on her shoulder shook Lydia from her ponderings of the potential throuple. Preston. His finger horribly hard on her alabaster flesh. 

“What?” She said, colder than she had been anticipating. He didn’t seem to get the memo. 

“How are you?” He smirked, leaning an arm against the wall to the right of her. He was taller than she, the orange of his tan horribly garish against the vibrant white of his suit and hair. Lydia was reminded of candy corn. 

“Fine.” She didn’t break eye contact, but the coolness of her voice only harshened. “You?”

“Cool as a cucumber,” he tried to purr as Spencer did, but failed horribly, sounded like he needed to cough. “But, feeling a bit on the  _ hotter _ side.” He nudged her, playfully, with his hip. 

_ Was he fucking serious?  _

“I’m just gonna go to the bathroom,” Lydia shot him a grimace, racing out of the doorway before he could utter another grotesque remark. 

………….

Seated on the lid of the stone toilet, she ran a hand through her hair. How had Claire got this so wrong? They had nothing in common, not a single thing! She supposed the blonde’s real intention was to get her laid, which would be an impeccable feat in itself, although it appeared she didn’t even need to work very hard given his less than subtle approach. She threw a roll of paper to the floor in her anger, cursing her frigidity to hell.

_ “Again.” _

_ “No, get off me- please!” _

_ “AGAIN!”  _

“Lydia!” There was a loud banging at the door, sudden and jarring. Lydia started, jolting out of her trance in an instant. The water had been running for so long her hands had turned scarlet in the burning stream. She winced, fiddling with the tap to soothe her skin. 

“Y-yeah?” She tried to keep her voice steady but failed. Thankfully Claire didn’t seem to notice much. 

“We’re leaving now, are you ready to paaaarty?” Claire giggled, her weight banging against the door. Lydia could hear a few disgruntled remarks aimed at the less than subtle Spencer.

“I’ll just be a minute,” she called back, aware of how much her voice was shaking. She heard Claire shuffle away, apparently draped over the arm of her latest ride. Lydia stared her reflection down in the mirror, slapping her cool hands hard against her face, bringing the colour straight back. 

With a squeak, the tap was twisted until it stopped running. Lydia heaved a deep sigh, shaking her long hair down her back in an effort of effervescence. She couldn’t entirely blame herself for the way she was. As much as she hated this pale, unattractive form and the person within its shell; it was all she had to work with. Maybe in another life. Maybe there somebody could really, truly love a creature as nasty as she was. 


End file.
